


You Remember Yesterday

by Paper_Pluviophile



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cinnamon Roll Papyrus, Comfort/Angst, Cuddles, Dogs are good, Everyone Needs A Hug, Fluff, Friendship, Hugs, Non-Binary Frisk, Other, Pacifist Frisk, Papyrus would be the best mom, Reader Is Frisk, Running away does not solve your problems, Sad with a Happy Ending, Sans Needs A Hug, Selectively Mute Frisk, Tears, genocide run mentions, group hug, skelebros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-06 10:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5413817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paper_Pluviophile/pseuds/Paper_Pluviophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dust, or snow? Pacifist, or genocide? Dreams, or reality?<br/>These night terrors haunt you, the fallen child sheltering with the skeleton brothers in the town of Snowdin, and though you may be determined you are so very, very frightened as well. In your ten-year old head, they die, over and over again like a sick, disorted record player on repeat, at your tiny hands smothered in LOVE, in their fine, chalky dust. It stains your hands with sins. You can't stand the way Papyrus smiles at you, not when you've cut him down a million and one times before, and when Sans shares another one of his puns you know he's judging you. You, a dirty brother killer.<br/>How can anyone bear to look at you? It would be for the best if you just left, wouldn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dust

Dust. No stars, no friendly smiles and no lovely sunshine, no friends. Only dust clinging to your pudgy hands like powdered hope. Your hands are those of a murderer. Of a dirty brother killer.

 _Why?_ Why do you smile, hop and skip through so much dust, spread your arms out wide and giggle and make vague dust angels in the mounds upon mounds of - death. LOVE. No mercy. Genocide.

You think of a sweet (sweeter than cinnamon and butterscotch pie) queen. Oh, how she loved you! She invited you into a home of maternal care and laughter deep from the chest, smiled past the rim of wire reading glasses and embraced you against her nurturing, compassionate heart. Toriel had loved you so dearly, but now Toriel is dead. Everyone is dead, and everyone is _dust_. And you are alone. Alone and caked in sticky, sticky dust.

When you wake up you don't scream, the bleary dredges of your consciousness lingering behind in a hazy dreamland, sprinkled with cinnamon and ash and children's laughter. You abruptly jerk up, breath hitching with a raw cough, sticking to your throat as everyone's dust had, clogging your esophagus and between your fingers and there's so much dust, _so much_ and you're hacking and coughing and you can't breath because you're suffocating on dust and _god, god there's so much dust, so much…_

Quivering down to your very bones you slowly untangle the many quilts tucked around you once the coughing has died down. The panic's still there. Your knees lock and knock together whenever you slide off the couch but you force yourself to stumble to the kitchen anyways. Ignore the creak of a door upstairs opening. Struggle to twist the faucet on, having reached the squat sink that Papyrus, noble Papyrus who deserves all the love in the world, had installed in just for you. It had been a week since then. This isn't the first time there's been dusty nightmares and scrubbing at palms with scalding water. _rinse, rinse it off Frisk you have to rinse it off, rinse off your sins now Frisk, Frisk it won't come off it won't, rinse it off rinse it off rinse it off -_

*hey, kiddo, what're you doing friskin' around the kitchen this late?" Light spotlights down at the flip of a switch. You don't respond. You feel your sins crawling on your back.

Scrub, scrub, it's so sticky and it smells like her homemade pies and reminds you of the betrayal in her loving eyes. Scrub, scrub, the dust is still there and it feels like the dried out snow (?) on his shredded scarf, the only thing left of him besides more dust. Scrub, scrub, it's dust and blood, or ketchup or sins or flower petals or the crushed granules of your blue heart heavy in your chest. Scrub, scrub, scrub, scrub -

The faucet is shut off. There's a low-key whistle from Sans, standing to your left and eying the tender rose hue of your flesh. *woah. looks like i caught you red handed. lemme help you there, 'kay?" You don't fight or argue or run away as he guides your trembling, red hands pulsing with pain under a now cool stream of cold water. Bony fingers steady tiny wrists. You can't bear to look up at the smile frozen in place on his face. Shameful. *bad dream?"

It's everywhere, thickly coating your eyelashes and loathsome heart purged of all good and mercy. There's bones disintegrating, all the way from a brave soul refusing to give up, refusing to give up on you down to the ground where snow meets bonemeal and ash. All you can do is nod, appalled at how vivid the clarity of the dream (memory?) is. Speechless, as always. All the words that mean nothing, all the strangled screams and null apologies, are crammed back down to the pit of your terribly determined soul. All except one, which is all the explanation Sans needs. "D…ust."

Funny how that one word houses the consequences of murder; regret; grief; though not really. It's really not funny at all.

*oh." Is what the monster replies. Yeah. Oh.

And now the tears flood over your vision, blurring the kitchen then over the frail strength that's kept you upright until now as you, a tiny child, break down. "S-S-Sorry--" You pathetically wail, voice hoarse with sobs congesting your vocal cords strained with the effort of speech after being silent for so long. Over an over you apologize, absolutely pitiful, sobbing into the shabby fabric of Sans' jacket. His stout arms hold you up, hugging you tightly and balancing you unsteadily.

*hey, hey. c'mon kid, if you got an issue lets just get a tissue ... s'alright." Sans, more or less awkwardly, pats your back comfortingly, your onslaught of emotion not entirely unsuspected. For the past few days the side effects of your disturbed and less than peaceful slumber has considerably altered your waking hours; little Frisk, why are you so jumpy, little Frisk why won't you eat, why won't you sleep, little Frisk why won't you play in the snow, little Frisk are you okay? No. No, you're ten years old and you're not okay in the least and everyone knows.

"BROTHER? FRISK? WHAT IN THE NAME OF ASGORE ARE YOU TWO - " Even Papyrus knows. Sweet, sweet Papyrus. "OH, HUMAN! ARE YOU INJURED? WHAT IS WRONG, WHY ARE YOU CRYING?" Woken by your sobs and conversation Papyrus instantly takes notice of your emotional condition, his concern only causing another dam to crumble and for more hot tears to drench your cheeks.

* 'ay, Pap. poor kid's been having some pretty bad dreams apparantly. it's a _nightmare_ for them." You sniff, miserably hiccuping and wiping futilely at your eyes as you attempt to smile at the other skeleton, wanting to assure him that everything really is alright, and that you really are fine, even though that'd be a lie. You're far too late however.

Papyrus scoops you up easily, the soothing glow of his saffron magic already radiating forth. "SANS! NOW IS NOT THE TIME FOR YOUR INOPPORTUNE PUNS! NOT WHEN THE HUMAN IS CLEARLY UPSET!"

Really, you're fine, you really are. Or, so you so terribly want to assure him, though you don't get the chance. Once you're wrapped up in his arms and he's beaming at you with that guileless, hopelessly cheerful smile you crumple. You bawl into Papyrus' scarf without warning, clutching it between your small fists and shuddering with the newfound force of your sobs. Over your wretched hiccuping and apologies tumbling both inside your mind and out you can't hear the two brothers panicked consolations, desperately trying to solace you, the fallen child.

By the time your sorry state has eased up and you're just a sniveling mess Papyrus has settled down on the couch besides Sans, your fixed position unchanged and his recently pressed scarf sodden with salt and water. Double-jointed phalanges comb through your frazzled hair, mussed from your little outburst. With how near Sans is, and how he watches over you with keen observation, he's like a guardian, you think. Whether it's for you or Papyrus you can't tell. Frankly you don't care right now. As long as you're here, as long as it's still you and everyone is whole and alive it can still be all okay in the end. To this hope you cling to, almost as much as you cling to Papyrus at the moment. At some point you're just occasionally sniffing, stiff fingers uncurling from their bone white grip with eyes too heavy to keep open. A crepuscular twilight of magic and darkness warms your heart. You sleep.*poor kid."

Gruff mumble blanketed by your regulating breaths and the wintry gusts howling distantly outside Sans pats your head once. Twice. Ambient orange hazes across the somber action softened by sentiment, his sibling smiling down at you, still dimly illuminating the room with his soul. It's like a night light. "BROTHER, DO YOU THINK THAT THE HUMAN WILL FEEL BETTER TOMORROW?"

* i hope so bro. but i bet they've been having a bad time lately." Papyrus ponders over the truth in those words while Sans shifts, sitting up properly and beginning to slide his arms out of the baggy sleeves of his jacket.

"YES, I HAVE NOTICED THAT AS WELL. I WISH ONLY HAPPINESS FOR THEM YET EVEN I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO LIFT THEIR SPIRITS. THERE MUST BE A WAY TO COMFORT THE HUMAN." He thoughtfully strokes his jawbone, still petting you as if you were a little lapdog. "THE HUMAN AND I CAN COOK SPAGHETTI IN THE MORNING TOGETHER - THAT WAY THEY MAY BASK IN MY GREATNESS AND THEREFORE RECOGNIZE THEIR OWN, ALL WHILE RECEIVING A VERY SELECT COOKING LESSON TO CHEER THEM UP. IT IS A PERFECT PLAN, NYEH HEH."

Nodding in approval Sans gives him a thumbs up. *sounds like a great plan."

Scruffy, but woolen and smelling of familiar scents (like ketchup and the moon) the stout skeleton drapes his jacket over your fragile form, curled up in a fetal position in Papyrus' lap. You really are small, and such a young child. "THAT IS VERY SWEET OF YOU SANS." Papyrus comments, tucking the padded garment in more snugly, approving of his brother's actions as well.

Reposing back Sans crosses his arms laxly. * _snow_ problem, paps. better get some shut eye though, or else you'll be _bone_ tired in the morning." A bemused snicker and conflicted, phony glare don't go hand in hand as Papyrus fails at not smiling at the insufferable puns.

"GOOD NIGHT BROTHER, AND GOODNIGHT TO YOU AS WELL, HUMAN." Leaning down with you cradled in his arms he bows his skull against your forehead. "NYEH~" A goodnight kiss, or at least the closest the parental skeleton can get to one.

*heh. 'night bro, kiddo."

Within fifteen minutes Papyrus is already passed out, gangly limbs stretched out as far as possible and scarf flipped comically over his face, somehow. You're not much better yourself, sprawled out once you reached stage three of the rem cycle and deeply asleep, legs hiked up on the arm of the couch and position crookedly resting halfway on your two friends. Their clothing provides a suitable amount of cushion, enough for it to be relatively comfy.

To his own surprise Sans hasn't bunked yet, though he nods off every couple of seconds. He takes just enough time to be sure that you and Papyrus are snoozing well. *…sweet dreams." He mutters, quietly, not wanting to wake either of you. Unbeknownst to him Papyrus stirs, always the light sleeper, scarf sliding down as he raises his skull - just in time to see Sans rest his forehead against yours before laying back down again.


	2. Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were still there in the morning- loved by your friends with your nightmares collecting dust in the back of your mind, smiling, laughing even and having a good time. Just like one big, happy family. You felt warm. Accepted. Like it was right and you belonged.  
> Ghosts can't leave you be though, no matter how much time has passed or been contorted and warped backwards. You don't want to die. You don't want them to die, not Papyrus or Sans or Grillby or anyone. Maybe running away will solve all your problems.  
> And now it's so cold.

You'd be surprised at how well Snowdin lives up to its name, if you could focus on anything else besides how much the snow looks like dust. Like her dust, like his dust. Like all your friends dust. Your footsteps sink up to your ankles and each step is a struggle; you feel as if your sins are weighing down on you.  The blizzard slinging you back and forth like a rag doll doesn't help much either.

Ice bites into your cheeks and any exposed skin it can embed its winter talons into, shredding at your flesh until it's numbed and raw. It's mostly just wind, though with the velocity it's rampaging at it might as well be a pack of feral dogs mauling at you with the fangs of the arctic. You're so cold. Even with the baggy jacket zipped all the way up to your neck and flapping wildly at your knees you're cold. It hurts. At least the flour should be gone, you think.

That's the reason you ran away after all. Because of some flour.

Well, it was a little more than that. Sort of. Last night had been both physically and emotionally draining, after sobbing your crimson heart out to your skeletal friends (whom you had _killed_  in your nightmares, though they felt more material than that) in the dead of night. Morning had been much better even though you still shook a little. Papyrus was eager to have you cook with him and you were more than happy to as well; his smile was just as omnipresent as his brothers' and able to make you smile too. You had also donned Sans' jacket after waking to find it tucked around you. The scent of Sans - ketchup sauce and knowledge and both the light and dark side of the moon - was nice. Though it was too oversized and stretched out to fit properly, reaching far past your unstained hands and over your thighs, he allowed you to wear it. His grin was less strained and crinkled with content. It made you feel accepted, and it filled you with determination.

Everyone had been having a good time. Pap was talking non-stop for all three of you while you nodded and giggled and fetched ingredients as needed, Sans even helping by lifting you up to the high up cabinets with his gravity defying magic. You had all been smiling, cracking puns here and there and horsing around. It had felt like family.

You guess you needed a reminder that family is not for you.

Precariously balancing in mid-air, a halo of blue elevating your soul, you'd just found the spices Papyrus had requested when Sans' magic wavered. It was just a little tremor, the lazing skeleton yawning for comedic effect during a joke. But you panicked. _Don't kill please He's going to kill you He's going to bash your skull to bits and YOU'LL DIE, YOU'LL BE DEAD AND YOU'LL RESET AND YOU'LL FIGHT AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN AND HE'S GOING TO KILL, MURDER YOU MURDER YOU, DON'T DON'T DON'T KILL, DON'T PLEASE NO, PLEASE, NOT AGAIN AND AGAIN NO, NO NONONONONO -_

Flour, everywhere. That and other powders and sugars were swept down when you scrabbled for stability, a grip on your sanity and onto to something, anything, and Sans had stalled his magic in surprise and you fell, you were going to die again by his judgement. Then he caught you. You wanted to thrash, scream, break free and _fight, fight or you'll be killed it's kill or be killed Frisk, fight fight FIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHT._

You hadn't spoken a word.

Your descent was gentle. Flour puffed up beneath you, sticking your jacket, to you. It looked so pretty. Mesmerizing. Like dust.

You ran. You ran and you think Sans would have chased after you, used his shortcuts and caught you, but he had exerted his magic too much, too fast. Sans wasn't doing so well these days.

And now here you are. Numb. Lost. Alone again. You can't see more than a couple inches in front of you and you're lucky that the blizzard peaked full throttle when you crossed those two, maybe three (your mind is fuzzy and it's hard to think) bridges. You think you'd have fallen and died. It's been a while since you last SAVED too. But maybe you'll die, still, in this storm of wind and snow and no mercy. It will kill you. It's not an enemy that can be befriended, or fought or bargained or flirted with. It's just wind and snow and a cold so deep that it locks within the marrow of your bones, roots within the pit of your soul and veins out through your entire body. Are you still standing? Are you still moving? Are you still alive? You can't tell. It's getting dark, too.

Strange. The Underground isn't supposed to have night or day, especially not in this mock weather. Snow isn't suddenly supposed to be firm under your wobbling steps either, or jab into your skin with splinters as you tumble down onto the - floor? Huh. So...strange. You don't feel so cold anymore either or as battered by the wind now. There's less blurred white, more solid shapes. A silver bell, an illegible sign knocked from its perch a few feet from toy. You can still see the snow past the countertop.

Snow. It looks so much like dust, doesn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty short compared to the first one, but only because I cut down it's original length since I hadn't completed it all the way through and I just wanted to update already. Hopefully the next chapter will be a lot longer though. Thanks for reading this by the way, lovely~ <3


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